


the particular sadness of curry

by amberwing



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, gratuitous amounts of radiant garden headcanons, unedited and messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-17 05:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberwing/pseuds/amberwing
Summary: For a moment, Ienzo considered saying no—and if there had been an ounce of pity in Even’s voice, he’d definitely have refused. But there hadn’t been. It was simply Even: a little sharp, a little brittle, and he knew.





	the particular sadness of curry

“The ‘power of waking’,” Even muttered to himself, fingers a wild tangle of wrestling spiders across the keyboard. The sound of his typing was, to Ienzo’s ears, much like an ice machine set on some mythical ultra setting, barely interrupted by the sharp bite of his voice. “What a ridiculous descriptor. A complete misnomer. How can we be expected to even begin to approach the problem when we’ve been given the approximate diagnosis of someone running in screaming ‘oh, it’s the pox!’ _ Which _ pox? Is it smallpox? Varicella? Syphilis? _ Acne? _”

Each word’s volume steadily increased; by the time Even hit ‘acne’, he was almost shouting. Ienzo leaned across from his workstation into his peripheral view, eyebrows raised, and Even glanced at him. His mouth twisted, and he uncurled himself from the agonized c-shape he’d taken over the workstation to inhale deeply, then exhale. 

“It could be worse. At least Master Yen Sid and King Mickey are lending their assistance.”

Not, Ienzo caveated internally, that their help was all that _ helpful _; neither of them could provide any kind of material guidance on the matter—only theory, and fragmented, often archaic theory at that. It was fascinatingly obtuse stuff, like trying to piece together an ancient manuscript from mouldering, rat-chewed bits of vellum, which Ienzo very much enjoyed; Even, who typically loved to wax on about the “miraculously flawed workings of the human body” and kept himself to sterile laboratories... less so. 

The issue of the power of waking was so broad, _ so _ unexplored that it required all of the apprentices’ expertise at unexpected moments. Even Dilan, who typically avoided the basement labs like the plague, had been called in to decipher some particularly snarled up diagrams King Mickey had brought from his archives. When they turned out to be a plan for some kind of rototiller—powered by what Dilan described as “ Either geese or an elaborate system of pulleys, can’t be certain ”—Aeleus had been thrilled and immediately set to building one, but Ienzo was still plagued by the bigger question: regular geese, or Disneytown goose-people?

There was a slew of even _ larger _ mysteries behind that, which Ienzo would save for later. The look on Even’s face when Dilan handed the page back to him had been of such pitiably gloomy exhaustion; he couldn’t bring himself to hurt him _ more _.

“Assistance,” Even repeated, bitterness dripping from his voice. He leaned back in his chair and groaned as his back popped. “I suppose you could call it that.” 

Ienzo turned his head, letting his hair cover his smile. “You must admit, we couldn’t have gotten even this far without them.” His screen was full of a slightly oversaturated scan of a book in a language Yen Sid had called Sindarin. It was beautiful to look at, but a bit of a bear to untangle even with the battered little translation guidebook Merlin had found for him. So far, Ienzo had deciphered the glyphs for “ light ”, “ friend ”, and “ mountain ”; two words relevant to their search was enough to warrant a little further detective work.

Even didn’t reply, and there came another frenetic clattering of keys from his side of the lab. Ienzo got through three more words: “ sea ”, “ boat ” (maybe “ ship ”?), and “ barrel ”. This could either be a travelogue or a captain’s log, he mused. He’d give it a few more pages to find something _ truly _ close—” heart ”, maybe, or “ awaken ” if he was very lucky—before setting it aside for something else. 

There was a needle-sharp, fascinating kind of irony to the fact that Ienzo—full-hearted, emotional, fragile, _ broken _ Ienzo—had so much more patience than Zexion. He tugged at the notion like a sore tooth as his eyes flicked from translation guide to screen, searching for matching sigils. It was a soothing, nostalgic task; as a boy, he’d often been set to proofreading Ansem the Wise’s correspondence to keep him out of everyone’s hair for a bit. He’d felt very important seated at Ansem’s desk with a dictionary nearly as big as he was open in his lap, a neat pile of letters in front of him. He’d always had a fine eye for detail, and by the time Xehanort had entered their lives, he’d been able to quite perfectly forge Ansem’s script.

Xehanort had often sat with him in Ansem’s office in the early days, before his memory returned, and Ienzo had proudly showed him (silently, of course, pointing from letters to dictionary) how to read Ansem’s Al Behd, which was… difficult to translate at the best of times. 

Staring at the screen, at a symbol that could have been “ jeweled ring ” or “ sun ”, his next breath tasted like ink and chalk and cold, damp stone: Ansem’s office, and Xehanort. Xehanort squashed atop a stool beside Ienzo, who would not relinquish the privilege of Ansem’s chair, Xehanort’s hands laid curiously still and flat, delicate as dead moths waiting to be pinned. Xehanort’s jack-o-lantern eyes following Ienzo’s fingertip from Ansem’s script to the too-thin paper of the dictionary, tapping on a word: “ another ”. 

One more. Distinctly different from the first. One of an undetermined number of group.

Even’s hand on his shoulder startled him so badly he nearly fell out of his chair. The guidebook went flying, hitting the far wall with a too-loud smack. His face was cold and damp. His hands were shaking. “Come,” Even said. “It’s past time for lunch. We could both use a break.”

For a moment, Ienzo considered saying no—and if there had been an ounce of pity in Even’s voice, he’d definitely have refused. But there hadn’t been. It was simply Even: a little sharp, a little brittle, and he knew.

He let Even help him up from his chair, and Even gracefully didn’t watch as Ienzo wiped the tears from his face with his ascot. Ienzo locked the lab behind them and let Even lead them up the stairs; he still took them two at a time, and held the door for Ienzo at the top. “I think Dilan mentioned he’d be making curry,” Even mused, brushing some stray dust from his sweater. “It’s finally the season for it.”

He had. The tiny stovetop in the kitchenette—preferred for its proximity to the labs over the better-equipped castle kitchens—was completely covered by the pot. A scrawled note on the counter read, “ Rice warm in the cooker ”. Everything smelled of spices: chili and garlic and cumin, bracing and sour and spicy; Ienzo breathed in, and out, and let Even make him a too-large bowl of it.

Sometimes, Even forgot that he wasn’t a little boy anymore, lost and helpless as the world ended. And, if Ienzo was going to be honest with himself, he forgot sometimes too. 

“I found curry on another world once.”

Even glanced at him, halfway through lifting a spoonful of food. He arched an eyebrow, a silent “ and? ” before he shoveled the curry into his mouth.

“It wasn’t anything like Dilan’s,” he continued, looking down at the scratches on the tabletop. “It was sort of savory-sweet and very mild, more like a gravy.” 

Even watched him gravely, spoon balanced lightly against the lip of his bowl. “Did you like it?”

“I’m not sure. At the time—I. I wasn’t really paying attention. It didn’t matter to me then. And now I’ll never know for certain.”

“Do you regret that? That you will never be able to return to that world?” Even asked, and Ienzo paused.

His first instinct was to explode with, “No! Better that none of this ever happened!”But he took a bite, tasted lime and ginger and coconut, felt his tongue tingle and burn, his eyes sting. Starchy, slightly chewy rice to soothe the heat. What had that other curry tasted like? What had the air felt like, the languages of its people been? Useless questions with no answers, now, too much like Xehanort himself; better not to think them. And yet—

“How can I not?” 


End file.
